Pelquin's Comet by Ian Whates Read Free Book Online Page B

to be equally sharp in both mind and dress sense, Archer was one of the rising stars of the department.
    He also possessed a glaringly broad ambitious streak, which Drake simultaneously admired and was wary of. On the rare occasions they’d met, Drake had the impression that Archer’s ready smile was disingenuous and that the younger man’s true self lurked some distance back from the ever pleasant façade, observing and calculating; even as Drake tended to do. Perhaps that was why Archer unsettled him: the man reminded him too much of himself.
    “Hear you’ve been assigned to a potential big one,” the other man said cheerfully.
    Word did travel fast. “I’m not so sure about that. It’s another trip on another rust bucket chasing wild geese. I’ll only find out what’s waiting at the far end when I get there. You know what it’s like; every pitch ever made to an assessor is for a ‘big one’.”
    Archer laughed, as if they were the most intimate of friends and he was fully relaxed in Drake’s company. “That’s true. Can’t say I’ve ever heard of an applicant seeking funds for an expedition to uncover a paltry cache of insignificant baubles.”
    “Quite.”
    “Well, best of luck in any case. I mustn’t keep Those Upstairs waiting.” With a final smile, Archer continued on into the building.
    Drake stepped from the comparative tranquillity and subdued lighting of the head office’s interior into the full-on glare and bustle of New Sparta’s day, reviewing the conversation. The bank’s field representatives spent so much time off world that casual meetings like this were rare. He didn’t know Archer well, but then he didn’t need to. Any fool could see that the man’s good wishes had been hollow. Archer clearly begrudged Drake this new assignment, but why? Drake suspected this apparently chance encounter had a significance that escaped him at present and wouldn’t become clear until he could define its context more effectively. Refusing to waste time on pointless speculation, he dismissed the incident from his thoughts.
     
    After wending his way across a busy landing field Drake finally reached the designated berth, where a ship waited as promised: a squat silver beetle of a craft built around a bloated fuselage designed to provide maximum cargo space. The front of the ship tapered to a narrower prow where the living quarters and guidance systems were housed. That tapering and the stubby fins projecting to either side and ventrally at the rear of the craft were the only structural concessions to aerodynamics; as if to testify that here was a vessel that plied its trade far from any world’s atmosphere and dipped down to grace the planet-bound only when strictly necessary.
    Much of the ship’s broad backside below the thrusters and exhaust vents was taken up by the cargo hatch, which currently gaped wide: the main door doubling as a loading ramp. A couple of the ship’s crew were on hand – a man and a woman – though neither had noticed his arrival.
    “Compact Tectonic Detector,” the woman declared.
    “Complete and Total Destruction,” the man countered instantly, as if this were a competition being run against the clock.
    “Controlled Thermonuclear Device,” the woman said almost as quickly.
    The two figures were hunched over a large silver metal case which stood at the foot of the loading ramp. Drake could see very little of the woman, who had her back to him, though her hair was a tumble of black-brown curls pulled back haphazardly and kept in place by a band. The angle might have hidden her figure but not her frame, which was broad and well-muscled, dwarfing that of the man beside her. A gangly individual with sallow complexion and a mop of ginger brown hair, the man wore dark blue work overalls belted at the waist, while his face was dominated by a prominent roman nose.
    No question, this was the right ship, though the realisation filled Drake with little joy. He was back at the